To catch a glimpse of his face brought back memories of burning temples and fearsome cries.
The enemy is at Honno-ji!
The thunderous pounding of horses' hooves along the neatly laid paths that surrounded the Honno-ji temple and led into the streets of Kyoto. The blood spilled, shimmering upon blades in the night. Akechi Mitsuhide's fierce, proud stance as he stood over the man whom he had loved as his lord for so much of his life.
The bodies of Oda Nobunaga and Mori Ranmaru on the ground, their blood on their own blades as they took their own bows in the final acts of their lives.
Nobunaga had protected Kiku for so long in a time where he changed hands between warlords so frequently that he had seen the entirety of his country's boundaries a hundred times over. He had grown close to, and fond of Ranmaru, his dearest friend, so full of life and energy in a world where the number of days you had left on this earth was so very often less than the number of swords on the battlefield.
He felt so safe, and it had been ripped away, nearly five hundred years ago.
But now; to see his face again--he supposed that it was not entirely impossible. Genetics worked in strange ways. He was, perhaps, a distant relative of the boy; Ranmaru hadn't any children of his own, nor had he even taken a wife, so a direct descendant was out of the question.
Though it was so very likely that it was merely a coincidence... Kiku had to try.
"Ano--Mori-kun?" He called out, reaching out a hand to grasp timidly onto his sleeve.
